


Heirs to the Throne

by Ira_Frost



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Second person POV, Whee, and i don't have a clue what i'm doing, don't mind these really, i actually wrote f/f, ok yes the summary sucks, sometimes things just happen, this is very experimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ira_Frost/pseuds/Ira_Frost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a kingdom where blood slays blood for the right to inherit the throne, two siblings realize that affection can easily turn to hatred. And a knight, caught in a tangled web of love and loyalty, helplessly watches the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knight: Vervain

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm not dead or lost in the Sahara. It's just that I write at the pace of a sloth and life was pretty busy these last few months.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re trapped in silver._

_Once upon a time, in a land of chaos, there was a princess._

~

The first time you see her, you’re sixteen and she’s fourteen, and the country is a sea of mourning black. You think she looks too young, walking beside her sister’s casket, but there’s nothing of a child in the harsh set of her face, only steely-eyed determination that reminds you of stories you’ve read.

Stories of warriors and monsters, the distinction between the two far too thin far too often.

You’re intrigued but in the following days, the intrigue is washed away in blood and pain, sweat and steel.

~

The next time, you’re seventeen and she’s fifteen, and she’s signing away her life and her innocence in a flurry of applause. The odd fascination returns, muted now, but there nonetheless as you watch the fall of her silver hair and matching eyes, a beacon of light who just promised to walk a path of blood.

Up there in the pulpit, she gleams in a way that reminds you of the play of light on sharpened blade. It suits her.

Ashmidai léi Koraith Bilander, Fourth Royal Princess of Venerere and newest Contender for the Throne. She is beautiful like a marble statue is beautiful, all blank planes and empty smiles.

~

It is nine years later that you see her up close, and then you’re kneeling on the floor, swearing loyalty with your hand fisted over your heart. You mean every word, not because it’s her but because you’re a knight and she’s the princess who chose you, and it’s your duty to serve your master with all that you are.

She extends a hand, not to be kissed but to help you stand, and you take it, surprised to feel familiar calluses marring the pale skin, destroying any illusion of fragility.

You look at her, into eyes colder than ice, and your apathy shatters like glass. Your duty has a name and a face now, and it hits you like a storm, the knowledge that you belong to this inscrutable woman with death in her eyes and knives in her smiles.

“Lady Vervain léi Jaztha Myr,” she whispers your name like a secret, mouth tilted at the corner in a not-smile. “My knight.”

“Yes, your highness.” You don’t understand the pressure in your chest or the breathlessness of your voice but in that deep little part of you that’s all instinct and no thought, you know that everything that changed.

You’re trapped in silver.

~

_But that’s not quite right, is it? A princess has to come from somewhere, after all. Wouldn’t it be odd otherwise?_

~

You have never been social or personable, thus doomed to near perpetual isolation, and it’s almost impossible to adjust to sharing every moment of your life with a royal princess.

The first week is strange. You feel a little lost, following her around like a stray puppy. The sudden change from military life to life in the Imperial Court is jarring, and not altogether pleasant.  Even more disconcerting are the glances, a blend of envy and admiration, sent your way by the other soldiers in the princess’s service. It’s not that you don’t know how big an honor it is to be chosen as a royal’s personal knight but the doubt lingers, why _you_ , of all the knights out there. You who are only nobility in name, you who have never had contact with the princess except in passing, you who thought you would live and perish in the battlefield for your country.

And then there’s Princess Ashmidai herself. She is a creature of contradictions; cold yet charismatic, gentle one moment and vicious the next, blasé about all things political but clearly willing to murder her own brother for the throne. You don’t understand her, not at all, but mere days in her company is all you need to comprehend why the men and women under her command are willing to fight and kill and bleed and die for her.

She is a force of nature, silk and steel in ice, and it isn’t long before it is genuine desire rather than mere obligation that binds you to her side.

~

Venerere is a cruel country, a nation forged in war and sustained in bloodshed. The cost of freedom is high and none pays as steep a price as the royal family; the children who slaughter each other to prove themselves worthy of the throne and the parents who watch them in silence.

Your master is one of them and you have no delusions about her nature. You know her to be a renowned warrior, adored by the entirety of the military. Still, it is a shock to see her out of silk wraps and in light armor, sword dancing in perfect harmony to her body as she thrusts and parries against an imaginary enemy.

You freeze in place when her eyes fall on you. For infinite seconds, both of you stand still and stare, and then she moves. A tilt of the head, the barest twitch of a finger and you go to her, pulled forward by invisible strings.

“Would you do me the honor of a fight, my knight?” Her voice is always quiet, but never calm, _contained_ instead as if the soft syllables mask a turbulent storm.

You bow and accept, you fight and you win, but all you can think is that it has been quite some time since you had to work this hard for victory. You are both sweaty, aching messes, and you can’t fight the delighted grin that stretches your face as you look at the disarmed princess. The expression is mirrored on her, eyes no longer cold but gleaming with silver fire.

“Brilliant,” she murmurs, gaze locked on you as if entranced. There’s a brush of fingers on your cheek, a faint tug on one short strand of hair. “You should smile more.”

She leaves you frozen (again) on the training ground.

Though you’ve won the mock duel, you’re left feeling as if you’ve lost in something darker and deeper.

~

Your abrupt rise in station has provided you with a plethora of luxuries, an opulent bed chamber abutting the princess’s rooms the most notable of them. It’s huge and gaudy and you barely use it, uncomfortable amidst the elaborate furnishings in a way you never were in the utilitarian barracks. Your days are spent training and shadowing the princess, and your nights are spent in her chambers, your conscience unwilling to leave her safety to the regular guards outside her room.

She is amused, you know, but amicable to the arrangement. Her straight-faced offers to share her bed with you leave you flustered each time.

The discomfort and embarrassment are all worth it when your sword slides through flesh and bone to pierce the heart of the black-clad figure who manages to get past the princess’s guards.

It’s not the first life you’ve taken, and it will certainly not be the last but it is special, your first true act in service of your lady, and the princess’s proud smile is all the reward you need.

And the kiss she presses to your cheek is entirely too much of a reward.

Her lips feel like blades and in the darkest corners of your mind, you fear how they taste.

~

_So there was a Princess, her mother the Queen whom she never knew, her father the King whom she never loved, her brother the Prince whom she rarely saw and her siblings the Twins whom she adored beyond reason._

~

It takes a year, countless spars, a number of attempted assassinations and a memorable military campaign before you begin to think of her as a person.

The shift from princess to _Ashmidai_ is gradual and you are shocked when you realize that it is her name that now drifts across your thoughts, always accompanied by flash of silver eyes. Those eyes are your prison and you find that you are a willing captive.

In the beginning, she was an idea given flesh, not even your servitude to her enough to reconcile the idea of the princess and the person. Somewhere along the way, she became a girl that grew up too fast into a woman who demanded absolute, unflinching loyalty and accepted nothing less.  

She scares you sometimes, when her eyes are not carefully, deliberately blank but alight with _something_ that sets your hair on edge. Yet you feel honored that she chooses to show you that something, that she trusts you not to run screaming.

Even if you could run, you wouldn’t, because while you respect the idea, you love the woman, a subtle adoration tinged with reverence that only grows with each firm command, each teasing comment, each stroke of steel on steel.

You’re a knight with a master whom you’re proud to serve.

You’re content.

~

You don’t know much but you know this: everything began with him.

Second Prince Adrinath is an enigma. You’ve seen him more times than you can count, with his auburn hair and midnight eyes that cast him in stark contrast to your bright princess. You’ve heard that he is charming and cunning, a politician deeply entrenched in courtly machinations.

You know that he is behind the assassination attempts on Ashmidai.

It is doubtlessly cruel, Venerere’s system of ascension that turns siblings against each other and forces blood to slay blood, but it is the way things are, the way things have always been, and you have lost the capacity to see it as wrong. As with the rest of the population, you have learned to accept it as necessary. But it is one thing to know and another entirely to _see_ brother and sister exchange pleasantries and veiled barbs over chess and attempt mutual annihilation in the cover of the night.

It is no secret that Third Princess Aveline, Prince Adrinath’s twin sister, was killed by the one with whom she shared a womb. It is a lesser known one that the sole reason Ashmidai made herself heir contender was to avenge her sister.

It is your princess who tells you, hands clasped at her back, chin up and eyes fixed ahead, speaking in monotone, no hint of grief audible. There’s a smile on her lips and rage in her eyes at every mention of her sister’s name.

She turns away from you when he’s done and you’re frozen, again, but for once you find the strength to _move_ , to fold your arms round her stiff form, to press your face to her shoulder and utter not a single word.

She says nothing you finally release but your apology dies in throat when you see her smile.

You feel inordinately proud knowing that you put it there.

~

She never calls you by name. You are always the knight, _her_ knight, as she so delights in reminding you. There’s always a note of possessive authority in her voice and oddly enough, you find it reassuring.

Your princess does not trust easily, and never wholly, so it is with no amount of awe that you finally realize that somehow, during the course of the last several months, you have become her confidante as well as her protector. There is warmth in her gaze when she looks at you, flashes of affection in her voice as she speaks to you, an unusual tenderness to the brush of her hands on your skin. Overwhelming even the awe is a joy that borders on ecstasy. Your heart feels too big for your chest every time she calls you hers.

You love Ashmidai, your master, but it is a while before you realize you are in love with her.

She is not half so blind, as seen in the kiss that she presses to your mouth, the lips that remind you of blades curved in amusement. You cease to fear them the moment you realize why you were afraid in the first place.

~

_There were four of them, two brothers, two sisters, and then one day, there were only three. The Princess grieved, and then she raged._

~

You see them fight twice.

The first is a familiar dance of blades and it is painfully obvious from first glance that the prince is hopelessly outmatched. He’s not bad, is in fact rather decent with a sword, but you’ve seen Ashmidai fight countless times, have personally felt the bite of her blade, and you know that _decent_ is nowhere near enough. Surely enough, it is not long before Prince Adrinath is down on his knees, one hand pressed to the spreading stain on his shoulder. His face is set in a grimace of pain but there is the barest hint of a smile when he looks up at his remaining sister.

Ashmidai’s eyes are on the brilliant crimson of his blood. Her expression is nothing short of covetous.

She comes to you once he leaves, wrapping wiry arms around you from behind in a lover’s embrace that beings heat to your face. This still feels new even though almost a year has passed.

“It would be easy,” she whispers, mouth brushing your ear, “to kill him during one of these duels. But alas, a certain amount of discretion is expected from the heir contenders. Pity.”

You say nothing but she senses the sudden tension in your frame, and _laughs_ , wild and loud and terrifying. You smile at that, just a little.

The second time is strange and you barely see the battle for what it is until it’s nearly over. It is a battlefield of words over a chessboard, deceptively casual, full of knife-edged smiles and tongues spewing sugary sweet poison. You watch from the sidelines, stunned and unsure, and sigh in relief once the prince leaves. The expression on your master’s face could burn stone.

She turns to you and it turns into a wry smile.

“That was exhausting.”

You are by her in an instant, bowing easily to the demands of her hands and lips.

It is a good thing, she will tell you later, that in the event of the reigning monarch’s death, succession is determined by a duel to the death.

You will think that that only gives Prince Adrinath more incentive to be rid of your master.

Not that it matters. You will not let her die.

~

Sometimes, you think that she must not be human.

You, who have been by your master’ side for years and have seen all that she is from the good to the best to the bad to the worst, see her as a goddess and a fiend, switching roles as needed with disconcerting ease. You love both sides of her, admire the way she never falters and silently, secretly, you mourn whatever it is that made her so.

It’s by accident that you say so out loud, tongue loosened by orgasmic bliss and the warm regard in Ashmidai’s eye as she lies looking at you, and once the words are out, there’s no retreat. You can only brace yourself for disaster.

You can beg forgiveness in the aftermath.

You expect angry but when you open the eyes you’d closed on instinct, it is not cold fury that you see on her face but rather a smile, small and sad in a way that hurts your heart.

“Vervain,” she says, and a distant part of your mind thinks that this is the second time she’s called you by name. “Thank you for mourning what I was. I wish I could have met you then. Maybe I could have given you more.”

She stops your automatic, sincere denial with one long finger pressed to your mouth.

“I know you’re not complaining. That’s not the point.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. You feel oddly helpless.

She turns away from you, tension clearly visible in the muscled lines of her back.

“Vervain, we will be the last. There will be no more kin-slayers in Venerere’s royalty. My brother and I… it will end with us.”

It’s akin to treason, what she’s saying. And yet you find yourself nodding in subdued acquiescence. You don’t understand her, not truly, but will gladly stand by her side even if she wants to burn down the world.

“Yes, your highness.”

There’s surprise in Ashmidai’s eyes when she turns back to face you, and something else that you dare not call vulnerability. She kisses you then, a gentle brush of closed lips, heavy with emotion in a way it has never been before.

It is the first and the last time you see her humanity.

~

There are more kisses, more duels, more assassins and more caustic conversations between siblings that you watch from the side. Ashmidai takes it all in stride with a smile of ice, never fading, never faltering. You always by her side, a step behind, a silent shadow content in its place.

Brother and sister are relentless in their animosity. You wouldn’t be surprised if all assassins on this side of the sea are congregating in the capital. Business is excellent as you know all too well.

The king is hale and healthy, and watches his children’s murderous endeavors with grim eyes that speak of inevitability.

_In the event of the reigning monarch’s death, succession is determined by a duel to the death._

She hides it well, so well that you often doubt whether she herself realizes it, but Princess Ashmidai is breaking. It’s subtle but you know her well and you see the cracks. Your master is cold-hearted on the best of days but these days her eyes are too blank to be human, her lip curl in barely restrained bloodlust when she stalks around her brother and her caresses on your skin draw blood more often than not.

_Direct attacks on the reigning monarch are frowned upon of course but after a certain age, suspicious deaths are not examined too closely._

She’s breaking, the façade getting thinner and all that she keeps buried inside slowly peeking out.

You wouldn’t mind seeing it all, not even if you get ripped apart for it, but Ashmidai wants the throne almost as much her brother dead, and you want nothing more than to see her wishes fulfilled.

_Alas, it is not easy to get to our honored father. He didn’t live this long without a healthy dose of paranoia._

Ashmidai chose you because you were the best. It seems that now it is time for you to take matters into your own hands. Hopefully, your master( _princesslovereverything_ ) will not kill you for it.

Even if she does, you wouldn’t truly mind.

~

**_The king is dead. Long live the-_ **


	2. The Princess: Ashmidai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’ll tell you a secret, brother. I loved you best._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of some segments overlap but it should be clear enough in context.

_Once upon a time, in a country far, far away, there was a throne built on death and stained with blood._

_~_

Your earliest memories are of eyes, large and black and round; two identical sets of dark orbs that peer down at you, sometimes together, usually one at a time.

_Brother_. _Sister_.

They’re the first words on your tongue, the figures dominating your vaguely formed thoughts, and for many, many years, you don’t realize that something about that is strange. The absent _Mother_ and _Father_ don’t bother you until are older and see other children- other, normal children not born with cursed royal blood, children who are not you- being raised by loving, doting _parents_ instead of by siblings who are merely five years your seniors.

Of course, they don’t exactly raise you alone. You have caretakers, and so do they, but those men and women, while kind and efficient, are not family. You are not their flesh and blood, you are a blooming princess to them and it shows in their behaviors, particularly as you grow older.

It doesn’t matter to you. You have your brother and your sister. Adrinath. Aveline. They’re all you need.

You’re four when you see you father for the first time. He’s large and cold and you dislike him instantly. Brother smiles, pleased and approving, when you say as much. Sister sighs quietly but doesn’t chide you.

It is a year later that you see your _other_ brother. He’s older than the twins, still a child at twelve, but he somehow seems older when he peers down at you with black eyes that should be familiar but are anything but when set in face framed by wispy strands of silver-white instead of riotous copper curls. His hair is the same as yours, and you find the similarity strangely disturbing.

You would rather look like the other two.

Still, you don’t hate him. You don’t like him either but that’s fine. Aralan seems to feel the same.

You are seven when you’re told that your mother died birthing you. They tell you that you have her eyes. You smile and nod and wonder if you should feel sad.

You don’t.

_~_

You watch them, helplessly intrigued by the duo of walking, talking wonders that are your siblings. It’s not that they’re beautiful, though they undoubtedly are and will be even more so once they fully grow into themselves, but you are captivated by the differences in their similarities. Or perhaps the similarities in their differences.  You can never tell which it is.

They have the same wide black eyes, the same wild copper curls, the same olive skin and even the same smile, but the look in those eyes are different and so are the intent behind the smiles. They walk and hold themselves differently, Aveline with effortless grace and ease, Adrinath with an odd wariness and palpable tension. Her smiles are sweet and carefree, his are empty and more often than not twist into a grimace. Her anger is fire, flashing eyes and caustic words, but his is ice, cutting glares and haughty disdain. Alone, they are both fearsome, but together, they are a force of nature.

They clash sometimes but only in secret, never presenting anything less than a united front to others. Even the few arguments that turn violent are as beautiful to watch as a well-coordinated dance. It’s a fascinating sight and you are unapologetically entranced. They don’t seem to mind.

But regardless of their differences, some things are always the same. They both look at you with unfettered affection in their gazes, gentle smiles devoid of falsehood on their lips.

You know you will be happy forever as long as the three of you are together like this.

_~_

Aveline teaches you to dance and you suffer through the lessons because she wants you to and because you never learned how to say no to her. You step on her feet more often than not, at least in the beginning, but it’s fun to wrap your too small arms around her and move as directed, pleasantly smothered in the lilac scent you will always associate with your sister.

From her, you learn to move softly, fluidly, with grace and _deadly_ precision.

Adrinath teaches you to play chess. You take to it easily, eagerly, something in the exquisitely carved pieces calling to you. The faint but pleased smile that blooms on his face when you impress him means the world to you. Afterwards, you climb in his lap and sleep with you head tucked under his neck, secure in the belief that he’ll keep the monsters away, even though you don’t really believe in monsters.

From him, you learn to plan and plot, to anticipate and counter, to _win_.

You’ll forever be grateful to them both.

You are eight when your father gifts you with a dagger. You despise him still but you fall in love with the blade. And the rest, as they say, is history.

_~_

_It was a country born of war that drew its strength from bloodshed._

_~_

You remember, very vaguely, the day Aralan came off age. The celebrations are a rush of color and noise in your memory but two things remain vivid. Your elusive older brother on the podium, unsmiling, and the eerie silence that settled over every man, woman and child as he renounced his claim to the throne.

Even as ignorant as you were then, you knew that something important had occurred.

Now that you know the true history of Venerere’s royalty, you can’t help but agree with Aralan’s decision. No amount of power can be worth such a steep price. The twins’ adoring smiles flash in your mind and you decide, then and there, that you will never stake a claim on the throne.

Besides, your dream is to join the military, to become a fearsome warrior.

You’re not worried about Aveline and Adrinath. They know each other as well as they know themselves. Surely, they will decide between themselves what to do. In your idle moments, you dream that your generation will be the first in three centuries to choose the heir without bloodshed.

_~_

You’re ten when the twins reach their maturity. You watch them from beside Aralan, both of you standing behind the king’s throne. Adrinath and Aveline stand further away on the dais, hands clasped together. Clothed in their newly chosen colors- red and black for Adrinath, green and brown for Aveline- they are a lovely sight, the very epitome of royalty.

You can only watch with a smile on your lips and adoration in your heart.

The world is waiting with bated breath for what comes next and you are among them, your frustration at your close-lipped siblings forgotten as anticipation to know who’s the next heir grows with each passing moment. Neither of the twins was willing to indulge your attempts to pry their decisions from them but you still believe in that dream of yours, of ascension without murder.

You will decide years later that you were a foolish child with foolish dreams.

In the aftermath, once the numbness has left, you remember the way you’d staggered and Aralan’s hand on your shoulder, supporting and sympathetic. You cry yourself to sleep that night, the memories your brother and your sister declaring themselves mortal enemies seared into your mind.

_~_

It is two weeks later that you deign to see them.

Aveline is apologetic, her smile soft and sheepish as she tells you reasons you don’t want to hear but need to regardless. You’re not surprised to hear that the two of them had discussed this beforehand, had agreed to compete for the throne. She doesn’t explain _why_ the contest is necessary and your queries are met with a smile that’s not quite real. But she tells you that there will be no murder, that she and Adrinath will both survive. You see the certainty and sincerity in her eyes, and you believe her.

Adrinath is amused and that infuriates you but when he folds you into his warm embrace and says that it’s fine to cry now, you do, screaming into his chest as he rocks your smaller body back and forth. Afterwards, you’re red-faced with embarrassment but he just smiles, strokes your hair back and promises that everything will be fine. You believe him. Scared and desperate, you believe him.

Years into the future, you will remember that you never could tell when he lied.

_~_

_Blood fought blood in battles where there were no winners, only victims._

_~_

You’re not the one who finds her.

When you do get to see her, she looks as if she’s asleep. Eyes closed, face serene, draped in white- she looks ethereal, like the gods of old. You don’t cry or scream or beg her to wake up. You just stroke the smooth strands of her hair and press a kiss to her brow.

You don’t run from the hall, from your father’s apathy or Aralan’s tears or Adrinath’s absence. You walk away, head held high and eyes dry.

No one tries to keep you out of Aveline’s room; those who look as if they might dare wither and flee at the look in your eyes. The chambers look the same, bright and opulent, each corner of it as familiar to you as your own. Except of course, the pool of blood on the floor beside the bed.

You remember the pallid skin of your sister’s (corpse) body and wonders, idly, if there’s even a drop left in her veins.

It feels natural to kneel down by the cooling blood and press your palm to the surface, watching entranced as bright crimson swallows up the pale white of your skin.

It doesn’t surprise you to see your brother when you turn around, a silent shadow by the door. His eyes are darker than you remember them being.

He remains silent as you approach him, immaculate and unaffected even when you come to a stop mere inches from him. His eyes widen when you cup his cheek with the hand stained with your sister’s lifeblood.

The blood he spilled.

“I will kill you,” you tell him, calm and almost tender.

You know that he believes you.

_~_

You vividly recall the vehement belief of your younger self that you would never, ever contend for the throne.

The softer parts of you that remain despite your best efforts long for that old belief but those are the parts that are weak and you are used to ignoring them. Your younger self was naïve and idealistic. You know better.

Fifteen and angry at the world, you climb the steps to the gilded pulpit with a smile that fits your lips like a well-worn mask. They’re there, your family in name, and you think of blood-stained skin when you incline your head at them in greeting.

The people cheer for you when you proclaim yourself heir-contender.

That night, you dream of Aveline, bright and happy as she was once.

_~_

It’s only after you lose them that you truly realize how much of your life revolved around the twins. There’s a gaping hole in your life that haunts you, an unwelcome reminder of the happiness that was washed away by a river of red and blank black eyes.

So you train. You train and train and train until you lose yourself in the consuming physicality of it, until are thoughtless and tired by the time you collapse in bed at night. You seek out the military’s best generals and demand their tutelage and you smile when they praise your growth with awe and pride. You watch, fiercely happy, as the once-soft skin of your limbs swell with muscle and become marred with scars and calluses.

You commission a blade that you wield like an extension of your soul, a faithful companion that will not, _cannot_ betray you.

You spar and fight and battle. You rise through the military’s ranks and become Venerere’s warrior princess.

It’s still not enough.

_~_

_Tragedy after tragedy birthed by tradition, parents and children torn apart by blind violence._

_~_

The king- you’ve long since stopped thinking of him as your father- grants you a private audience that you did not ask for after the coming-of-age ceremony. You bow to him, cold and polite, and agree without comment when he demands that you choose a personal guard.

He wishes you luck when you turn to leave and you pretend not to see the sadness in his eyes when he does. It’s the only time you have ever seen him show emotion. It leaves you utterly unmoved.

Choosing your guard is painstaking and time-consuming. You devote yourself wholeheartedly to it, grateful for the distraction. You consult your mentors in the army, you watch the soldiers and you personally review the records of likely candidates.

In the end, you choose ten. Kaya, Wen, Rieni, Vasya, Koren, Sado, Ilyerenn, Anari, Lomarre and Keir.

They’re ten wildly different men and women, united only in their undeniable skill, and you feel strangely possessive of them. Dressed in your colors and looking at you with gazes varying from cautious to curious, they form an odd group.

And now they’re yours.

The thought makes you smile and some of them smile back.

_~_

You come of age amidst the death of your sister and relentless thoughts of vengeance. The thought of love or courtships never even cross your mind.

You’re eighteen when a nobleman’s son your own age whom you’d hesitate to call a friend kisses you. His lips are firm on yours, his palms gentle yet confident on your face. The unanticipated and unwanted kiss burns your mouth. His soft, untrained body is thrown to the ground with the force of your backhand and his pretty blue eyes are wide in shock when he looks up at you.

“I should cut off your hands for that,” you tell him calmly, voice belaying the rage simmering in your gut. It’s an empty threat because you’re not that cruel but the fear that paints his face white is beautiful to see.

That’s the last you see of him. But the memory remains, much to your dismay.

Kissing Sado, over a year later, is different. She is nearly a decade older than you and her sun-browned hands are rough with calluses when they hesitantly curl around your own.  Kissing Sado is also pleasant and you enjoy having to coax her into forgetting you ranks, your ages and to just feel. She shows you everything she knows of pleasure and you will always remember her with a smile.

You never loved her but you mourn her all the same when she is the first to fall to your brother’s assassins.

You don’t replace Sado and the ten become nine, all of whom are spurred by the loss of their comrade into becoming stronger as you watch from afar, approving.

There are others after Sado, some soldiers, some nobles, all women. You still don’t think much of love or courtships but sex is a lovely distraction. It helps you to not think, at least for a little while.

_~_

The first five years are suspiciously calm. You keep clear of Adrinath, every glimpse of him bringing forth memories of another face just like his, pale and still in death. It’s not fear that you feel nor is it something as straightforward as hatred. Everything is a twisting mess inside you, your mind crumbling with each passing day until the peace and simple happiness of your youth are distant dreams.

You’re better off without them anyway.  

The night of your twentieth birthday, you wake to the glint of a knife in the moonlight, a shadow moving within shadows. The struggle is swift, brutal and in the aftermath, your hands and face are splattered with pulsing hot blood. It’s your first kill.

You can hear the pounding of your heart, feel the race of your pulse. The laughter that bubbles out of you is more honest than it has been in years.

You ignore Keir’s and Anari’s fervent apologies and queries, storming past them to the other side of the palace. Adrinath’s guards gape at your blood drenched form but don’t stop you when you stalk past them into his chambers. There are more guards inside and your brother is wide awake, staring at you as if expecting this.

“Leave,” you command together. The guards’ unease as they hesitantly leave goes ignored, both of you having eyes only for each other.

You smile, wide and feral, and spread your painted arms wide.

“I survived.”

He nods, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Will you?”

He only smiles sweeter in answer.

He does survive, though his hands remain free of red. You play chess afterwards and he wins.

It becomes almost a game afterwards. You learn to watch for knives in the night, to sleep with an eye open, to always _always_ look over your shoulder for shifting shadows and hungry metal. 

You always seek each other out after each fallen assassin. These times are spent with few words exchanged, all that you need to say contained in the clash of dueling blades, the dull dance of pawns across the board.

“She was my lover,” you tell him after Sado’s death. He says nothing.

_~_

_Then came a prince and a princess, siblings by soul as much as by blood, and for the first time in a long time, there was hope._

_~_

It’s Aralan, of all people, who brings up the idea of a personal knight. You’re skeptical; there are nine highly skilled men and women dedicated to your protection.

“What difference can one more make?” Neither you nor the brother you have not marked out to kill mentions the occasional assassin- one among ten- that manages to get past your guard and onto your own blade.

“It’s different,” he tells you and you pretend not to notice the blatant affection in the stare he shoots the sun-haired woman walking a few paces behind you.

Months later, you see her, one among the myriad of knights in the castle, and oddly enough, the conversation with Aralan is all you can think about.

She’s plain in appearance; dark hair, blue eyes and scarred skin bronzed by the sun. Nothing special. But it’s in the way she walks, not with the learned elegance of royalty but the wild grace of a predator. Her strides are long and sure, her limbs firm with toned muscle, but it’s her face that fascinates you. Her eyes are shadowed with things intangible and though you watch her for far, far longer than appropriate, you don’t see her smile once.

You find her interesting, for some reason. It’s not lust, though maybe there’s a little of that too.

A few questions in the right places and all that is there to know about her is in front of you in neat lines of ink.

Age twenty-four. Orphaned at birth. Joined the military at fifteen. Attained knighthood at twenty-two. Certainly an exemplary record but nothing about it justifies your strange fascination.

Vervain léi Jaztha Myr. It’s a very pretty name.

You watch her again and again, for weeks, always staying hidden, smiling at the way she tries in vain to uncover the eyes on her. Not once do you see her smile.

_~_

“Be my knight.” These are the first words you say to her and it’s exquisite, the way her eyes widen in shocked confusion.

Things move quickly from there- you are royalty, after all- and Vervain maintains an air of vague confusion throughout it all. She watches you with a mixture of caution and indifference, and keeps her distance until the moment she can’t.

You can pinpoint the moment her apathy fades into realization, the moment she finally _sees_ you. Her hand tightens instinctively around yours, once and then she lets go. Her eyes remain on you though, wider than ever and just a little dazed.

“Lady Vervain léi Jaztha Myr,” you murmur the now familiar notes of her name into the space between you. “My knight.” It’s back, that flare of possessiveness.

“Yes, your highness,” she answers without hesitation and you decide then and there that you’re going to keep her.

_~_

Vervain doesn’t quite fit into the deceptively simple fabric of your life. The Nine resent her abrupt presence even as they respect her superior skills; they keep their distance through polite bows and private laughter. You cannot help but be amused by the way it all rolls off the knight like water over smoothened rock. She barely seems to register their presence.

Her eyes are always only for you.

She is your constant shadow, a watchful and unobtrusive companion, who refuses, in that quiet, firm away of hers, to leave you alone even at night even though a room befitting a princess’s knight has been arranged adjacent to yours. It’s amusing and you find yourself charmed by it all.

Had it been anyone else, you would have taken that for desire but there’s only vigilance, and the occasional flash of curiosity, in her severe gaze. For the first time in a long time, it is you who are completely captivated. She is an enigma, this blank-faced, clear-eyed orphan turned knight. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from offering to share your bed with her, utterly deadpan and even half-sincere, just to watch her eyes widen like that time when you asked her to be your knight.

And as days and weeks pass by, you watch her watch you with ever growing intensity. It is strangely rewarding to see the impersonal duty evolve into true loyalty, to hear the vaguest hint of emotion in her tone when she calls you princess. You have yet to see her smile.

As you are not in the habit of lying to yourself, you admit that you are perhaps a little fixated on your knight.

You recognize the exact moment she sees _you_ , not the princess, not the warrior, not the murderer, just you. _How typical_ , you think as you twist out the path of her sword and retaliate with a flurry of strikes, _that it had to come to this_.

You lose soundly and for once, you feel no disappointment whatsoever. Because Vervain is smiling, a bright and joyous grin that transforms the somber planes of face into something stunningly radiant.

Even you wanted to, you count have stopped yourself from reaching out, stroking one dark cheek and gently tugging a sweaty strand of night-black hair. “Brilliant,” you whisper, without pausing to ponder if it is the fight or the fighter you are describing. “You should smile more.”

You leave then because you do not trust yourself not to say more.

_~_

_Alas, history repeated. The princess fell to the prince and seeking vengeance, another rose up in her place._

_~_

The first time you kiss her is on the cheek, a swift little peck, and you drag your mouth away before it can move to her lips. Vervain looks at you in shock and the red on her cheeks is almost as bright as the blood on her clothes from the dead man on the ground.

You owe Adrinath a visit but that night, you stay, silently watching as the body is removed and the room cleaned, Vervain a solid presence beside you. There’s a question in your brother’s eyes when you see him the next morning. You answer it with the mockery of a smile.

In truth, she is a distraction but you find that you welcome it, this focus on something that it is not your dead sister, revenge and the bloody throne of Venerere. In another life, she might not even be secondary to such matters but that’s a pipe dream better left alone. In this life, she is someone you can never stop watching, who only grows more fascinating with each day.

It’s a long, long time before she starts watching back. And you know that it will take even longer for her to see you the way you want to.

But that’s fine. You can be patient.

For a little while anyway.

And so you wait, until the puzzled stares to turn into startled blushes and then you kiss her, properly this time, certain that the desire is now mutual- or if it isn’t, the potential for it to be so firmly present. She freezes at the first soft touch of your lips and makes a noise that reminds you of a trapped animal. You’re about to draw back, an apology on your tongue, when she sags against you, her larger frame almost collapsing against yours. You deepen the kiss and twine your arms around the solid warmth of her body.

Vervain’s eyes are dark and dazed when you part, and she looks at you in newfound revelation. You smile and she smiles back, sweet and just a little shy.

_~_

Time passes. There are more assassins that fail, more duels that you win, more chess games that you lose, more of Adrinath and much, much more of Vervain.

Some days, you think you can feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like melting snow, fading into nonexistence before it hits the ground. Adrinath’s blood is mesmerizingly bright on your blade and the marks you leave on Vervain’s skin grow darker. And yet, it’s the two of them that understands best. Your brother looks at you with questioning eyes and you imagine that you see his fingers twitch as if aching to reach out. Vervain sees and she _accepts_ without question, giving you anything and everything with a devotion that is painful in its absolute simplicity. She deserves better, you know, but at this point, you couldn’t let her go if you wanted to.

“She will bleed herself dry for you,” Adrinath tells you one evening, across a half-empty board, “That knight of yours.”

You don’t reply because there is nothing to say.

You want to save her even though you know that you can only destroy. It consoles you, somewhat, that Vervain seems content to be destroyed.

Still, you give her more of you than you’ve ever given anyone since you were a child whose world began and ended with two twins. You tell her of your past, the good and the bad and worst, and she absorbs it all with little words and unflinching acceptance.

If you could love anymore, you know that you would have loved this woman.

_~_

You know it must be bad when Vervain’s concern starts showing.

She doesn’t ask, doesn’t act, merely watches you increasingly fracturing composure. You hate the sorrow in the blue of her eyes, the helplessness in the downward curl of her lips, and more than anything, you hate the way she sees past your empty smiles to the tempest raging underneath.

And maybe you hate yourself for craving all those things too.

_It’d be easier if you died_ , you think every time you catch sight of the king, which isn’t a lot, and never feels an ounce of remorse for the thought.

You avoid Adrinath for weeks, not trusting yourself. It helps until he corners you in the library one damp night, dark eyes narrowed and disapproving, and the next you remember, you’re both on the floor, your hands wrapped tight around your brother’s slender throat.

As tempting as it is to keep squeezing until his struggles still, it is the image of Aveline, pale and gorgeous in death, that flares up in your mind. He looks the same now as she did then, down to the last curl of blood-red hair.

You let go and pick yourself up, one hand clutching your own face, fingers digging into skin.

“You know better than this, brother.” 

He stands up, panting and coughing, and says almost gently, “So do you.”

You leave then, and he mercifully doesn’t follow.

It’s a relief to climb into bed, Vervain already on it and sleeping soundly for once. You bury your face in her hair and shut out the world.

_~_

_And not for the first time, the gilded halls of the palace witnessed the fate of love turned hatred._

_~_

The king is dead.

You are genuinely shocked for the first time in countless years when you hear the news. You don’t know why you eyes seek out Vervain – perhaps it’s habit, perhaps it’s uncharacteristic need for reassurance – but one look at her tired face and you _know_.

Today it seems is a day for surprises.

You ignore the suspicious, though hardly disapproving, looks Rieni and Koren throw you way and retreat to your chamber, Vervain following faithfully.

“You killed him,” you say, a little breathy, and doesn’t wait for her response before adding, “Why?”

Vervain’s face is carefully blank. There are dark circles under eyes, darker than usual. You wonder why you didn’t notice.

“For you,” she says and her faith in their truth is so strong that it doesn’t occur you to think to question them. So you listen. “You’re tiring, Ashmidai. I can see it. The prince can see it. This way, it will end.”

And you’re frozen, mind and body stunned to still silence. Vervain remains where she is, calm save for the trembling of her hands.

“You can punish me as you see fit,” she tells you, eyes lowering to the floor. You want to scream at her to look at you but your tongue won’t move.

_She will bleed herself dry for you. That knight of yours._ Adrian had told you.

You don’t mourn the king or the father he never was, but the Vervain you’d first met, bronze and blazing in the sun, would never have assassinated the king in the dead of the night without even her own master knowing, and you mourn _that_.

Still, you force you feet to move and pull her to you. You kiss her until the heat of her mouth flushes the ice from your veins.

“Thank you,” you whisper into her ear and her arms finally come around you. “I will not waste this gift.”

And you don’t.

_~_

The funeral is quiet and hollow. There are no tears shed for the passing monarch, not even from his own children. A sad but sure fate for Venerere’s monarchs.

The mourning black you are draped in is little more than a passing gesture. From the almost bored look on Adrinath’s face, you can tell it’s the same for him. You gazes meet across the crowded graveyard and the certainty of the end is written as clearly in his eyes as they are in yours. He smiles wryly.

There are other eyes on you both, wary and judging. They don’t know which one of you is responsible and suspicion is heavy in the air, a generous helping of it directed at you. Fair enough, you suppose. A knight _is_ considered an extension of their master’s will, no matter how ridiculous the notion is. Humans are rarely so simple.

The mourning period is a week, no one expecting the kin-slaying children of Venerere to spare more time than that for the parents that raise them for slaughter. You wear the black with poorly concealed irritation. Impatient anticipation sits uneasily under your skin, crawls through your blood and makes itself known in the scattered colors of your dreams. You don’t see your brother that whole week and you nights are more paranoid than ever. But no blades come for your throat in the cover of the dark.

Vervain never leaves your side and for that you are grateful.

The last fourteen years, half your life, has been for this.

On the eighth day, you meet your brother in the throne hall, mourning black discarded for your own colors. Red and black. White and gold. The room fades, the audience fades, Vervain fades until only Adrinath exists.

The sword in your hands weighs of lives lost and the first strike feels like inevitability.

The battle is a haze; a mess of blades and blood and your brother. You’ve dueled with him countless times, has won each one. His blood on your blade is as familiar as the sensation of cold steel sliding through his flesh and bone is not.

You resurface when it’s over, shaking off the fog of familiar movements and trained instinct to find your brother in your arms, his head on your shoulder. He’s breathing heavily and both your clothes are wet with blood.

His blood.

His blade is on the floor. You drop yours to wrap that arm around Adrinath’s shoulders. The embrace feels natural, a little like coming home, even though it’s been _years_ since you’ve touched each other with affection.

“You win, Ash,” Adrinath rasps weakly. There’s something in his voice that you can’t identify.

“I did,” you respond, voice empty of inflection.

The victory feels empty too, with none of the elation or satisfaction you’d expected to feel. You don’t ponder that thought. There will be time later. For now, your brother is dying in your arms.

You hold him a little closer, bowing your head to put your lips at his ear.

“I’ll tell you a secret, brother. I loved you best.”

_~_

Adrinath’s funeral passes in flashes of black and red and tears not shed.

The confusing numbness that seized you when he was dying against you remains, feelings muted and thoughts distant. Vervain looks at you with shadowed eyes until you kiss away the shadows. You’re thankful for the small spark of warmth you feel at that.

When they place the crown on your head amidst subdued cheers, all you see is Adrinath and Aveline, mirror images melding into one.

Your phantom sibling(s) smile at you.

A solid, real Aralan smiles at you, sad and _wrong_ ; hair too pale, too short.

That night you spent sleepless, standing out on the balcony with Vervain by your side, sneaking glances at you every few moments. Despite everything, it makes you smile.

“Vervain,” you say as dawn breaks, calling her by name as you seldom do. “This country. I will make it burn.”

From the corner of your eyes, you see her go rigid. And then her arms close around you, strong and secure.

“Yes, your highness.”

~

**_There are no victors, only victims._ **


	3. The Prince: Adrinath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a time when all you wanted was to protect them.

_Once upon a time, there lived a prince with ice in his heart and fire in his soul._

~

You’ve never liked mirrors. The perfectly inverted form of your reflection is bland and uninteresting when compared to Aveline, on whose face your features are mirrored, perfect in all its imperfections.

It has fascinated you from the moment you realized that not all siblings shared the same face, same skin, same hair, same smile like the two of you.

You remember the shock of realizing that the insides don’t match the outsides; you’ve forgotten the exact moment of that particular epiphany, critical as it had been at the time. Afterwards, your fascination had grown to envelope the differences. But even in your variations, you fit. Her depth of feeling and your lack of it coming together like parts of a two-piece puzzle.

When the changes spread to the outsides, you’re prepared for it, only to be surprised yet again as adolescence leaves you both still strikingly similar. You can never be sure if it’s that you’re particularly feminine or she particularly masculine. When Aveline grows out her hair, you briefly contemplate doing the same but the one time you see her struggle to tame wild curls into some semblance of submission is enough to convince you otherwise.

You find it ironic how your minds stubbornly continue down wildly different paths.

But that’s fine. She is your twin, after all. Compromises can be allowed.

Until they can’t be.

~

Ashmidai, when you first see her, is a miniature bundle of pink skin and too large eyes. She gazes up at Aveline and you with an innocent smile, reaching for you both with one tiny fist.

She’s a curious little thing, so different from you and your twin, and even Aralan. Aveline is smitten at first glance, taking to the role of older sister with unprecedented enthusiasm. It takes you months, stubborn and indifferent even at the tender age of five, to admit to yourself that you’re just as taken, just as helpless in the face of this frighteningly fragile creature.

Though years pass and you grow ever more apathetic with each, the role of brother feels as natural as breathing. Aveline’s gentle affection and Ashmidai’s growing adoration are worth the incalculable danger of carrying them in your heart.

Still, it’s something of a shock to realize that Ashmidai is more like you than your actual twin.

Not quite the same, not quite as wrong, but you can see echoes of yourself in her single-minded devotion to you and Aveline, in the quiet contempt in her eyes whenever she looks at your father in name, in the words that often seem too old, too knowing.

Sometimes, you catch Aveline glancing between the two of you with a pensive smile that nearly always fades into a quiet sigh.

You can understand how she feels after a fashion but mostly, you’re captivated. You so dearly want to see the sort of person your precious little sister will grow up to be.

~

It’s a slow, glacial shift.

It’s not that you’re unaware of Venerere’s twisted politics. It’s just that you don’t particularly care, not until Aralan is fifteen and renounces his claim to the throne to the outrage of the entire nation.

At first, you don’t understand why people would be so dismayed at what is clearly a wise decision. After a while, you wish that you never managed to understand.

Because the truth is that Venerere is a country so used to bloodshed, it’s people so accustomed to the needless cruelty of its rulers that the sin is not the twisted tradition itself but the rejection of it. Thirteen is, even for you, too young an age to realize this.

You wonder – and hope – that Aveline has seen it as well but one glimpse of the anger in her face when she looks at their brother is answer enough.

“What would you do if you were Queen?” You ask her on the night you both turn fifteen. The next day, the two of you will officially be enemies. She smiles, wide and bright, and says, “I will do what I must. Make Venerere great. Greater.”

She’s always been something of a dreamer. But this is the first time you find the gleam in her eyes discomfiting.

_But don’t you see-_ You erase the thought then and there before it can gain voice. Ashmidai seeks you out that night, chess set tucked under her tiny arms. She’s not worried but there’s a restlessness in her that you understand all too well. You entertain her well into the morning, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.

She is still a lot like you. And so in her, you have faith.

 

~

_The prince was wise, perhaps too wise, and he saw too much of the rot within beauty._

~

 

There was a time when all you wanted was to protect them.

But you were younger then and less _aware_ of life and of yourself. Life is dangerous, often cruel, and you are no one’s savior. And you do trust our sisters not to need one.

But neither of them have ever needed saving from their beloved brother, least of all Aveline who still sees you as womb-mate first, rival second. You adore your twin but you’ve long since realized that love has little to do with anything.

You kill her with your own hands because it’s the least you can do.

This is an act that’s been set in stone since that day four years ago. Aveline’s dying face is one of stunned horror and you’re suddenly, inexplicably sad that she never saw this coming. You’re sad for other reasons as well but that, as ever, is irrelevant.

Her guards bow to you as you leave.

~

You expected it and yet it’s not until after a week of icy grey eyes that shows no sign of thawing that you truly understand that you have lost both sisters at once.

Ashmidai who used to look at you with adoration bordering on worship now turns her face away in rage, grief, disgust. The scant moments of contact are worse for her accusing glare seems to pierce into you like the tip of the dagger she’s so fond of.

_I thought you would understand_ , you want to tell her but the plea always dies in your throat. After some time, you realize that she can’t understand. Ashmidai has only ever been similar to you, never the same. And you know see yourself clearly enough to accept that it’s better this way. You faith in her doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows.

Aralan’s disapproval is louder than you sister’s quiet anger. He throws you looks that resemble a wounded animal and pulls you aside to preach of blood and love and family. You listen, silent and patient, until it’s over.

_Cowards who run away have no say in the acts of those who face life._

The wounded glances persist, now shadowed in guilt, but that’s the first and last time he tries to play the part of Brother.

~

In all honesty, you don’t realize that you’ve been growing your hair until the tips of it brush your shoulder. The sensation is new and strange. You run a hand through the curly locks, feeling out the inevitable tangles.

It’s a bad idea. Long hair is far too troublesome, as you know very well from years spent watching Aveline. But there always seems to matters far more pressing to attend to and before you know it, the curls fall down your back. You find that the knots are easier to sort out this way.

Your reflection looks more and more like your dead sister, and sometimes, you catch Ashmidai looking at you in pained confusion.

In the end, you keep it long because the amalgamated image in the mirror is in many ways a comfort.

 

~

_Love fell to reason and the prince willingly became what he despised for the sake of change._

~

 

In the past, Ashmidai’s birthdays were filled with presents and laughter and hours spent with the just the three of you, comfortable and content with each other.

The day of she turns fifteen is drastically different from the others. The palace and the people are alight with impatient anticipation. For them, it’s the day when the last royal offspring declares her stance on the throne. For you, it’s the day that will decide whether you will be crowned heir or have another sister for an enemy. Once, you would have said with surety that Ashmidai would never choose to contend, not after all the times you’ve heard her express her distaste for the bloody tradition. But this last year has erased almost all traces of the cheerful sister you knew and the cold determination perpetually coloring her eyes disturbs you on some days.

She’s resplendent in white and gold on the dais, staring down at the fathered courtiers with the dignified pride of a true royal. You feel like she’s grown far too much in the past several months, matured into an almost stranger.

It’s not shock that you feel but resignation when she proclaims herself heir contender. Her voice is as smooth and steady as your own had been. You do not heed the watchful eyes on you, as many as on your sister, when you make your way out of the throne room with carefully controlled steps.

It seems that Ashmidai’s anger is not so quiet after all.

~

It begins as an experiment.

Ashmidai has never been delicate, fiery even as a child. That fire has turned to ice but you believe that it suits her even better. That’s why, when you send a killer to her room in the dark o the night, it’s not concern that you feel but curiosity.

You wait for her, protected by loyal soldiers because you now know not to underestimate Ashmidai’s fury.

As always, she doesn’t disappoint. Blood-splattered and wild, she stands before you. She’s alive and unharmed and colored with the life of another. Something about the look in her eyes unsettles you but you shove that aside and greets her with a smile.

Many assassins, many games, many duels and many years later, you will understand what that look meant.

~

The years have accustomed you to being the most important person in Ashmidai’s life. Beloved brother or target of vengeance; the intention doesn’t matter when it’s the one sacred bond you have left.

And it disturbs you when that bond is challenged and by one so seemingly oblivious to it.

Ashmidai’s new knight is an orphan girl with plain looks and immense skill. She’s nothing special per se but watching Ashmidai watch her, you have to wonder if there’s something in her that you can’t see. She is as stoic as ever, most of the time, but when she stares at the knight, Vervain, there’s a look in her eyes that’s raw and dark and covetous.

You don’t try to fool yourself that the increased frequency of assassins sent to her chambers is for any their reason than to be rid of the knight. The attempts are as pointless as always and new rumors spread among the guards of the great prowess of the fourth princess’s personal knight.

Months and months later, the wanting on Ashmidai’s face is tamed into something gentler and easier, which you hate more than before.

But her loathing of you seems as strong and ferocious as ever, and that will have to be enough.

 

~

_Blood called to blood, and vengeance reared its head. The prince watched, waited but couldn’t act._

~

There are few things that you find impressive. Ashmidai’s determination and persistence is among them.

She is a remarkable woman with a warrior’s heart and had there been any other option, you would have regretted all you have put her through. That she has not broken is worthy of respect.

But the fact is that she is fracturing.

You imagine that the threads of her sanity are held together by her hatred of you and the devotion of that fanatic knight. But they are fraying and soon, they will snap. You know your sister and you know that she won’t break into a soulless husk but into a veritable monster, fuelled by rage. She’s always been rather violently inclined and you can all too easily picture how insanity would augment that brutality. It’s not something you want to witness and not just because you would be her first victim.

It will have to end soon.

Aveline would have tried to help, to soothe and heal her beloved little sister. The best you can do is offer your heart on the altar of her fury and hope that your blood will sate the beast.

You intend to do nothing of the sort, at least not voluntarily. But you know that the outcome might be the same nonetheless.

~

In the end, the damned knight is your undoing.

And the worst thing is that you can understand all too well why she did it. You’ve known for a long time that as far as Vervain is concerned, there is nothing more important than Ashmidai. The king, the country, the world – all ultimately inconsequential.

It seems that you are to fall victim not to thirsting vengeance or political machinations but rather the twisted love that binds those two women.

You once pushed aside love for the sake of a greater purpose and that’s how it began. The irony isn’t lost on you.

There is no real question whether or not you’ll die. The monarch’s death while multiple contenders remain necessitates a duel to the death to settle matters. And while you’re hardly helpless with a blade, you have nothing on your sister’s savage skill.

Oddly enough, it’s not rage or grief that you feel but quiet resignation. There are surprisingly few regrets and even they have little to do with your impending death or failed ambition. Not that it matters either way. Regrets are pointless.

As for the throne and the kingdom … you have faith in Ashmidai.

~

The mourning days pass by with little fanfare. It reminds you of your mother’s death and its empty rituals.

You don’t see much of Ashmidai during these days and the odd glimpse shows her plastered to the side of her knight, rank and respectful distance eschewed in favor of comfort.

You spare a moment to think that there’s no one to comfort you but that notion is dismissed quickly than it forms.

It’s a long week. Though you know what awaits you at the end of it, you only want them to pass as fast as possible. A lengthened wait will do you no good, particularly since you have nothing and no one to hold on for.

You do consider cutting your hair, shearing the long locks until you look only like yourself and not like your long dead sister. In the end, you do nothing of the sort. Perhaps you’ve grown attached to the reassuring weight of it.

On the eight day, the final day, you join Ashmidai in the throne room, greeting her with a smile that is not returned. She is once again clad in white and gold, a bright counterpoint to your darker figure.

If this were a story, she would be the valiant hero and you the cruel villain. Shades of that can still be seen even now but ultimately, life is not that simple.

Under the watchful eyes of the entire court, the two of you duel. The weight of your sword in your hands is familiar, your sister’s eyes across you is familiar and if you wanted to, you could pretend that this is just another spar where Ashmidai works off her frustrations on you. But it’s not and you don’t pretend that the overwhelming force slamming against your blade wants anything but your skewered heart.

She can have it. Half of it’s always been hers.

And so she takes it, making most of an opening that you knew would be fatal the moment she moved. There is very little pain when her sword pierces through your chest, just a fierce burn that takes your breath away.

You slump onto her, knees bucking and sword falling from your slack grip. She smells sweet and sour and comforting, and when her arm comes around you, holding you close with a gentleness you haven’t felt in a long time, you realize that you’ve always wanted to go like this.

“You win, Ash,” you whisper, that old and neglected pet name falling naturally from your lips.

“I did,” she replies, neither joyous nor triumphant.

Her hold on you tightens, still gentle but far firmer. It feels nice.

“I’ll tell you a secret, brother. I loved you best.”

You know this, have always known, but it’s nothing but it’s a gift to finally hear it from her, the faintest note of sorrow tingeing the words.

It’s a good day and a good way to die and you think that you might be smiling when the darkness finally claims you.

~

**_From flames, be born anew._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Author's Note:**

> So.  
> That happened.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


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